Confidence
by JonnyLT
Summary: In his old age, Woodie doesn't really like how he looks. Luckily for him, he has a loving husband to remind him! Woodie/Wolfgang. Modern AU. Not for the kids. (Also on AO3!)


One morning Woodie wakes up, and he is nearly fifty. He isn't especially sure how- or when- it happened. All that is certain as he rolls out of bed is that he is much older than he used to be. He doesn't mind the aches of middle age, as much as he groans about them. He doesn't care that there are bags under his eyes or that his hair is greying, thinning; doesn't mind the pills, the doctor visits, the fact that he is at the point in his life where sleeping almost always sounds better than sex. No, he doesn't have any real complaints until he looks in the mirror.

He sneers at his own image. He approaches the full-length mirror that hangs on the wall, already grouchy enough to give that mocking doppelgänger a few words. The man's eyes trail down himself. His face is nowhere near as handsome as it'd been just a decade ago, the sharp angles of his face softened and flushed out and wrinkled. His strong shoulders and arms had become plush, hardly good for lifting anything at all. Even worse were the stretch marks that marred these parts of him. He pulls up the legs of his boxers and notes that, in a sick sense of symmetry, angry wriggling lines also marked the cellulite in his thighs. But nothing— _nothing_ —could be worse than his stomach.

It hangs over the band of his underwear, thick and draining like a fifty kilogram leech. He grabs at it, taking fistfuls of lovehandle and still having too much to contain. He digs short nails into the flesh, jiggling it bitterly. He _hates_ it. There's nothing redeeming about this mound of blubber, nothing endearing about the marks that ran up the entire length of it, stopping just short of his floppy, nasty breasts. He takes in a long, frustrated breath. He releases his body, barely resisting the urge to slap it as he does. He's contemplating going back to bed when he hears a voice calling for him, making his heart jump.

He throws on his robe quickly, tying it on as tightly as he can. He doesn't run- he hates the sounds the wooden floors make under his weight—but advances down the stairs faster than he normally would before his morning coffee. His husband is in the kitchen, humming and lazily pushing eggs around a cast iron skillet. Despite hearing Woodie coming, Wolfgang can't resist a gasp when the shorter man runs up behind him, wrapping his arms around him and pressing as close to him as possible. The lumberjack pushes his nose into his husband's back, taking in the scent of him. Wolfgang always ran a few miles before the sun fully appeared on the horizon, and the smell of sweat and dew and testosterone still clung to him.

Wolfgang was so warm, comforting; he was so gentle and funny, caring. _Hot._ Woodie pushes a hand under his husband's shirt, lifting it as he rubs that big, tight body. Years and years of hard jobs and hard workouts have shaped this man into an Adonis—a god on earth. And normally the younger fellow would revel in the way his strong man felt. But today was different. Today, those touches made his stomach twist up in knots and tension bubble up in his skull. It makes Woodie pull away quickly, awkwardly shuffling to the table.

Wolfgang doesn't comment. Instead he places a plate, stacked high with hotcakes, on the table in front of his lover. A matching plate for himself- along with eggs, cut fruit, milk, juices, sausage and hot cereal- soon follows. He takes his place across from his lumberjack, idly holding his hand, running his thumb over the pale knuckles. Woodie glances at their hands apathetically, looking to Wolfgang then looking away.

The redhead had been having an increasing number of passive mornings, and for the sake of his own self-esteem, Wolfgang chalks it up to his husband's age (though he _was_ the younger of the two). It certainly didn't help that he loathed talking about his problems. He always assured the Russian that no, no, he could handle it all on his own. It was worrying sometimes, but it never took long for Woodie to bounce back from just about any mood he was in and that was usually enough reassurance.

They eat in silence, or, Wolfgang does. Woodie cuts a chunk out of hotcake and idly pushes it around his plate. He usually had such a healthy appetite, one that matched his love's own.

"Your stomach is hurting?" Wolfgang asks softly, cocking his head just so.

Woodie shakes his head in response. He did feel nauseous, but not for the reasons the other was thinking. "Nah."

"Food, it is not good, then? Did not burn it again, did I?"

"Nah," he repeats, voice shifting to a low, annoyed growl.

"Then what is problem? You are all right?"

"It's nothin'! Why ya so damn _nosey_?"

Wolfgang is shocked; it'd been a long time since the lumberjack had taken that tone with him. However, he doesn't let it get to him. He brushes it off, smiles. He moves his chair, scooting closer to Woodie. He takes his fork from him, holding up in front of him. "You are hungry, is why you are grouchy. Did not have dinner last night, remember? Because you are coming in late."

Woodie slowly turns his head to meet his husband's gaze. He raises a finger, pushes the fork away. "I ain't grouchy, and I ain't hungry." He wants to spit some venom, so against his better judgement, he adds, "What's your Goddamn problem!"

His husband crinkles his eyebrows, deciding to eat the bite himself while he's processing what his fussy ginger is getting on about. "Have no problem," he retorts. "Am not the one yelling."

"I'll yell if I want to! Jesus, Wolfgang!" He pushes the plates away. (Carefully; being angry is no excuse for breaking dishes and making spills. That's just rude.) "You got a lot of problems, I think! Isn't that why you're turnin' me into a sloppy little pig?"

The Russian man shakes his head. "What are you-"

Woodie grabs his lover's hands, pulling them forward and forcing them against his belly. "Look! See? Wasn't always like this! I didn't turn into a darn _walrus_ until we moved in together and you started feeding me trash! Now I'm just- I'm just-". The spot of anger he'd had quickly bubbled away and was replaced with a very heavy, solemn feeling. He hides his face in Wolfgang's shoulder, groaning and mentally beating himself for his behavior.

A large hand entwines in his hair, twirling strands around his fingers, whilst the other found his back. Wolfgang kneads the flesh there, very gently swaying with his love. They stay this way for a time, until Woodie feels beautiful, plump lips press against his head. "Where this is coming from?" soon follows. "Is not like you at all."

"No, that's true. But this- _lump_ \- I'm livin' it, it's not me neither. This eyesore of a body, it don't even feel like me! It feels like I'm just an actor in a fat suit or somethin', playing some role."

"Darling, you are handsome-"

"I _was_ handsome. Yer thinkin' of the young fella in the pictures on our mantle! But he's long gone, and what do you got in return? A walking tub of cheese cur-"

Wolfgang interrupts him by pushing him away. He clamps a hand over Woodie's mouth and his face is deathly serious. "You will stop." His voice is a low rumble—a thunderstorm in the distance, the stampeding feet of wild dogs—and despite the situation, it shoots down to the younger man's loins. His gorgeous, powerful eastern bear of a husband stands tall before him, prompting him to follow with a tug of the elbow.

The lumberjack finds himself back in the bedroom, back in front of the mirror and back in just his underclothes. Wolfgang stands behind him, both a wall for support and a barrier to prevent escape. When Woodie looks away, he gently grasps his chin, turning it forward again. "Do not turn away. Wanting you to see just how beautiful you are."

"Wolfgang, do we gotta do this? It's so…" Embarrassing? Shameful? Humiliating? Nasty? These were just a few of the many words that came to mind, even though he couldn't bring himself to say any of them.

"Yes, we must. Because you have been hiding this from me, so have to make up for lost time." He traces his fingers down the center of his husband's body, brushing against red hair all the way down to the underside of his belly. The hand returns upward, pausing to draw circles around his breast. The hand used to hold the younger fellow's chin soon joined in the session, reaching under his beard and lightly stroking the chub beneath his chin.

Woodie feels his skin turn to gooseflesh; the urge to push his husband away pounded at the inside of his brain. It was only a light, quick grab of his crotch that distracted him long enough to banish such thoughts. Maybe that was a little pathetic, but they hadn't made love in weeks and he was too self-conscious and tired to even masturbate.

A nip and tug of his ear bring him back just in time to catch his love running fingers against his stretch marks. He groans, disgusted. "Hun-"

"They're so sweet. I am sorry I have not counted them before."

"Sw...eet?" The lumberjack shoots his man a look, not even needing to move his head to do it. "Ain't nothing sweet about my skin being so tight it wants to rip open."

"They soft. Distinct. Remind me of rivers on maps—ones that bring water and life. These show that you have been brought life and made most of it." He takes the time to count each one, naming every dip. He starts with real names, like Amazon and Volga and Mississippi and Sleeman. When those run out, he gets a little more creative—Christmas, Indigo, Nicholas, Charisma. Light names, fun and inoffensive; there would be no negative associations with the marks upon the redhead's voluptuous form.

He notes the Woodie has been quiet, lulled into a passive state with his lips drawn into a tight line and his eyes nearly shut. But when Wolfgang grabs at his chest, cupping his breasts and taking the nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, the lumberjack sputters to life, making an odd sort of groan. He thrusts his chest forward in a subconscious attempt to move away, slapping his hips against the taller man's crotch. "What're ya doin'!" he asks, voice just a little breathy. "Those ain't for th-"

His words catch in his throat. The Russian, taking advantage of the position, had begun to grind against his husband's rear. Woodie shakes his head in a weak sign of dissent, but not for a minute would he deny the effect Wolfgang's motions had on him. His already snug shorts are quickly becoming too tight and sweat begins to form on the back of his neck.

"You think I have not noticed how tense you are?" Wolfgang murmurs to him. "I had wondered why you were not making love to me—but now things are making sense. You do not think you are beautiful and it makes you neglect self." He pauses to thrust against the red-haired man. "Will help. But you need to take these off."

Oh, Woodie is desperate. He had been too embarrassed to take care of his own needs and was thankful he would have someone to help him do it. His boxers are tugged down in a moment and fall to his ankles. His recently settled stomach twists up again at the sight of himself exposed. His thighs touch and his pubic mound is fat, covered in thick hair. Worst of all was how hard he was, with having barely been touched. He would have turned his gaze if he'd thought it would do any good.

Wolfgang sighs dreamily, resting his chin on his husband's shoulder. "You are so handsome. Every inch of you is lovely and delicious." The younger man simply grunts in reply. His lover was more than likely just talking about himself, speaking the words to the mirror so that his fat ginger husband could pretend the words were for him. Which was silly. The contrast between them was so obvious! Wolfgang was tall and strong, his body was perfectly toned and his face was well-chiseled. There wasn't a stretchmark on him and there wasn't a bit of him that had too much hair. More than once, Woodie had wondered why Wolfgang had just settled for him.

It was easy to tell by the look on his face that the lumberjack had begun to hurl barbs at himself in his mind yet again, so Wolfgang shushes him gently, runs hands down his sides. Deft digits dip between his full thighs and loving lips catch the crook of the shorter man's neck, and Woodie finds out just how hard it is to focus on self-hatred when a warm hand is reaching down to run fingers down your dick.

"Gettin' right into it?" he asks, heart starting to pound.

Wolfgang nods. "We can kiss and have foreplay later. This is help."

With no hesitation, he takes Woodie's cock in his palm, giving it a few eager strokes. He presses his middle finger against the frenulum, taking a moment to massage it gently. He feels his husband twitch, feeling rather satisfied when he has to adjust his breathing. "Good?"

"Yeah. Yeah." The Russian man's free hand finds his balls, turning his primal grunts into one long, sharp exhale. " _Ohhh_ yeah."

Pillow talk sits on the tip of Wolfgang's tongue. Their dry spell had been rough for him too and it was so tempting to mutter all sorts of filthy things to him. He could tease him about how little it had taken to get him in such a state, could call him easy, his own little fucktoy. Or he could be worse; set up the mirror in front of the bed, lube up Woodie's ass and finger him till he was crying. But he loves this man too much to put his mile-long list of desires before the lumberjack's well-being and happiness, so he settles for occasionally rubbing his clothed cock against his love's back as he jerks him off.

He could blame it on his age, or on the weeks they went without hopping into the sac, but the fact of the matter was that it only took a few minutes for the younger man to feel his climax coming. His cock had swollen up and he felt his balls tightening under Wolfgang's magical fingers. He leans against his husband, rolling his neck to lay his head on his thick shoulder. His breathing became erratic and his eyes screwed shut. He snaps his hips forward, desperately fucking that hand. He gets so close to the peak- he can feel his muscles prepare to spasm, feel the lightness in his brain—just in time for the hand to be pulled away.

It's a moment before the redhead realizes he hasn't finished, that his cock still stands painfully stiff, leaking precum and growing cold in their chilly bedroom. He makes a sound like a moan and it's utterly pathetic. "Don't- Wolfgang don't. Damn it, I'm so close. Wolfgang please-"

The taller gent keeps his grasp on his lover's thick hips. "Will give it to you. But you must do something first."

"Anything! I just wanna come-"

"Look at yourself."

Woodie glances down at himself before shifting his gaze to get a better view. His vision was cloudy, but it seemed to him that something was very different. He didn't hate the look that pleasure had painted on him; color had flushed over him, breaking up the pallor of his skin. His shaking knees brought a sort of enamorment too.

"Woodie," Wolfgang breathes in his ear. "Woodie, you must call yourself handsome."

He accentuates the command with a few light pulls of his cock, making up for what had been lost. The lumberjack feels himself on the edge again, and again the hand leaves him.

"Why're ya teasin' me, love?"

"Am not teasing. You need only do what I ask."

Wrinkling up his face, the younger man looks himself in the eye and for the sake of his orgasm, grumbles, "…'M _real_ handsome."

He's rewarded with a pinch of his nipple and a rub of his balls. "Good. Now, you are beautiful."

"Darling, this is stupid-"

"No, treating yourself like dirt is _stupid_. Loving self never is. You should love self as much as I love you."

Woodie's pride tells him otherwise, tells him he shouldn't submit to such unfair terms. There's no reason he can't escape to the shower, make himself come. Why should he put up with this denial, why does he need to be made to feel uncomfortable? What does Wolfgang hope to gain-

Eyeing the man breaks his train of thought. Despite the sexy, silky way he'd been speaking, his face was twisted up in concern. His eyebrows were drawn together and he was frowning, the edges of his mouth peeking out under his mustache. His eyes were shining and for the lumberjack, that was like a punch to the gut.

"Honey, I'm _sorry_ …"

"Just want you to be happy. All I ever want for you. But you cannot be that way if you do not see how wonderful you are."

The lumberjack reaches up, rests this side of his husband's face in his hand. The Russian nudges against him and Woodie sighs. It takes a moment and a few deep breaths, but eventually it states, "…Maybe I'm not… a total eyesore."

Wolfgang shakes his head. "Not enough. Tell yourself how beautiful you are."

"Isn't _trying_ enough?"

"No!" he cries. "No, you must say it. Must do this for self, not me."

"…-utiful…" the redhead mumbles in reply.

"Woodie!"

"I'm beautiful!" he huffs, saying it loudly to spite his husband. He's being juggled between angry, upset and horny and it's starting to grate on him.

"Tell yourself that worth is not in appearance. That being big does not mean you are less human." He laid his hand over the one Woodie had pressed to his cheek. He uses his fingers to fill the spaces between his lover's own digits. "That you are so much _more_."

Woodie doesn't want this to drone on. This kind of talk makes his chest tight and to make matters worse, he was ebbing away from his orgasm. So his takes a moment, lets his ego take the backseat. He nods, swallows the lump in his throat. "I _am_ more. I-I'm a heck ofa good husband, helped raise our pups right too. 'Can build a house better than anybody in Ontario." He actually laughs. "Oh jeez uhh- I'm a proud citizen, always payin' taxes and voting. I guess I-"

He's pulled away from the mirror, interrupting his list. Wolfgang pushes him onto the bed, pushing him to his side and laying behind him. He kisses him desperately, leaving imprints of teeth and faint hickeys across the back of his shoulders. Before the ginger-haired man can even ask what's going on, attention is brought back to his cock. His breath hitches in his throat but he doesn't protest. It didn't seem like his husband had any intention of stopping this time, so he lets himself melt into his touch.

Between the quick movements of his lover's hands and the feeling of that same man thrusting his clothed cock against his back, it doesn't take long for Woodie to get back up to snuff. His senses are overloaded and his whole body is trembling. Warmth bubbles up in his stomach and he feels a tightening on his skull. His orgasm takes him and he shudders through it, fucking Wolfgang's hand until he's finished. There's a few more jerks on his softening dick before it disappears.

"What a mess you made," the Russian teases, raising his messed hand up in front of their faces. Woodie feels his cheeks warm and he smiles nervously, shrugging. His beautiful, black-eyed husband adds, "You should clean it up."

Unlike having to give himself praise, that was a rather easy task. Doing his best to be sensual when he's spent, he takes Wolfgang's hand by the wrist. He drags his tongue up his palm, tasting his own seed on his lover's hand. That brings a different kind of sensation to his lower half and it thrills him enough to make him lick the palm clean.

"I love you," the older man muses, pressing a finger against Woodie's lips. He accepts it, sucking it for a moment before moving onto the next. When they're both satisfied they pull each other close, tangling up in a mess of limbs.

"I love you too. I love you more'n anyone."

That earns him a kiss on the forehead. "Thank you. And ahh—my darling?"

Woodie tips his head up to him. "Yeah?"

"If you are worried about it, we will work on it."


End file.
